Makers Outtakes
by RikkiTikkiCathy
Summary: A collection of "deleted scenes" from the Birthrights cannon. Rated M for some chapters
1. The Qunari Way

Dangerous Thing

Dorian realized he was a void-blasted fool for knocking on a Qunari's door when the sun hadn't even properly risen. But sleep had been fleeting.

He had lay in bed for an hour, considering his position in Skyhold. The reports he had read had been encouraging but there was one underlying opinion which seemed to infuse most of them. It seemed Dorian Pavus was seen as a bit of a layabout. Oh, sure enough, when it came time to fight he was there and useful, but most of what people saw of him was drinking or reading or flirting. General carrying on.

Of course, to be fair, that had been by design. He had gone to great lengths to be seen. But things had changed. Dorian wanted his place in the Inquisition to be secure. He wanted people to know he was giving everything up to be here. Fitzwilliam, of course, knew that well enough. But the others? He supposed he would need to put on a different kind of show now. Perhaps there was some problem in Skyhold which he could solve? It would have to be something that would fail to register on the Council's radar, but was pervasive and important.

Maker knew they had enough supply problems, on the top of this blasted mountain. Food was getting to be less of an issue, since the gardens had been properly established. Even if all they grew at the moment were winter roots. Between them and the animal stock they were in fine shape as far as food. Metals for repairs and armor were harder to get, but they tended to utilize the troops to bring those in. And Dorian wasn't sure he'd be terribly helpful in that regard anyway. He knew some mages who could sense or work with ores but earthen magicks had never been his calling.

He'd mused for quite a while before realization struck. It was so simple yet so obvious. _Elfroot_. There was _always_ a shortage no matter how much they gathered or grew. If Dorian could put his efforts to solving the shortage they would see how devoted he was to this cause. And how brilliant he was, naturally. It would be something someone like Dorian would see as beneath his notice. To pick something so small, but which impacted so many lives? That would make a statement. The right statement.

He'd even worked out how to do it – before he'd dressed. He might not have been good with earthen magicks, but manipulating energy? Finding loopholes in the laws? Well, that was practically his specialty.

_Of course,_ that was not the reason Dorian was knocking on a Qunari's door at Andraste's ass crack of dawn. No, this was going to be terrible. He knocked again. Something thumped heavily against the door, rattling it in its frame. Dorian jumped, paused, and knocked again.

It was the wrong choice.

The door flung wide as Bull roared angrily. Dorian moved calmly back – one, single step. Deliberately. He certainly did _not_ jump back in fear from the beast. Bull stopped roaring and looked at him with one, very surprised, eye. "Dorian?" He asked, rubbing it. "Wha?"

"Does the offer still stand?" Dorian asked before he could lose his nerve.

The Qunari covered his face with the palm of his hand and shook his head. "I thought we went over this last night, Dorian," he sighed heavily. "You don't want to do this to the Inquisitor. He deserves better."

Dorian furrowed his brow. "What?" It took him a moment to understand what Iron Bull was implying. "No! Maker, no! Bull, that's not what I meant." He hoped he looked as shocked and scandalized as he felt.

Bull lowered his hand and looked at him. "Then what offer are you…"

"To beat the fear out of me!" Dorian exclaimed. _Maaaaybe we should have gone in the room._ He thought as doors began to open.

Bull retreated, putting on his armor with the door swung wide, and then grabbed a large sack. It clanked in a worrying way that made Dorian swallow anxiously. "Better have a few elfroot bottles, mage," he said.

Dorian patted his belt. He'd thought of that. "That's not all I'd like your assistance with," he added as Bull walked out of the room, joining him in the hall.

"That so?" Bull asked gruffly as he led the way downstairs. He grabbed a hunk of some kind of meat off the bar on his way out. It appeared to have been there since last night. Bull didn't seem to care as he began gnawing on it.

"I'll tell you more once we're out of Skyhold proper," Dorian said, trying not to gag. Bull was making quite the display, chomping with his mouth open, grease smearing around his lips.

"Where we goin'?" Bull asked through a mouthful. Bits of flesh spluttered out of his mouth in a meaty spray.

Dorian sighed. "Somewhere where no one will hear me scream."

VVV

When they arrived at the clearing near the hot spring Dorian breathed deeply. This was a good place. A place of calm and solitude. What he had to do could be done and no one would even suspect he'd been here. He turned to look at Iron Bull. "Before we get on with the barbarian methods of your culture," he said lightly, "I have a favor to ask."

"_That's_ how you ask for a favor? Maker, Dorian," but Bull was smiling.

The mage rolled his eyes. "I've been toying with a way of helping the Inquisition with the elfroot supply problem. I think I can encourage them to grow and spread. The problem is using magic that way… well I'm just as likely to burn them up without a conduit."

Bull's face was… well Dorian didn't know quite how to describe it. Confused, and baffled, _and_ frustrated. "Do I _look _like a sparkly mage pansy?" Bull asked incredulously. "Really, I need to know. If I do I can go roll in the mud."

"Maker, no!" Dorian shouted and extended a hand. "I can hardly stomach you as is. Okay, okay, forget the logistics. Let's break it down like this:" He gestured to Bull. "You are strong. That strength is a kind of energy. I can, in theory, channel that energy into the earth and the elfroot in the area. With extra "food" they will grow. There will be much more elfroot much closer to Skyhold. Supply problem solved."

Iron Bull nodded, "I think I understand that. So the risk to me is…?"

Dorian tried to look unconcerned, "Negligible. You'll be tired, but no more so than if you had had a good fight. Probably less tired than when you fought the dragon."

"If you think this will make me too tired to beat you properly, Dorian," Bull warned in a low voice, "You will be disappointed."

Dorian shuddered, "Perish the thought," he said shakily. "This is an unrelated matter. Once done here you will take me to that cave." He gestured to his right, where a dark opening in the mountain stood. "And you can…" He didn't have the words. If he was honest the idea of Bull tying him up and beating the fear out of him was terrifying. But they had to face Coryphaeus soon. He couldn't afford to let his fear control him any longer.

"Deal," Bull said gently.

Dorian didn't waste time. The hardest part was feeling his way through the earth to find the elfroots. He knelt, feeling moisture seep into the knee of one trouser leg, and pressed his palm to the spongey earth. The weather had been getting colder, but this area seemed to rest in perpetual spring. Many thanks for that were due to the natural hot spot under them. It was from this Dorian would draw the energy needed, once he figured out how. Bull was here for the trial and error part, lending his energy instead of the roiling fire Dorian could sense below them. Once he stretched out his magical sense and located a small patch of the herb he held his other hand out to the Qunari.

Bull grunted but took the offered appendage, wrapping his larger fingers around the entire thing. It pinched a little but that hardly mattered. If anything, it would ground his mind in the present. He concentrated on the place where their skin touched and began the process. It was a hard thing to describe, more like pulling up a fishing net than anything else. Even when empty the net was heavy and unwieldy, and so it was with this particular kind of magic. The more he heaved, the fuller the net, the more it wriggled to be free.

He pulled Bull's strength through his body and poured it into the ground, directing it to the roots of the cluster of herbs. Nothing happened. He could feel that he had stimulated them, tricked them into thinking nature had come early, yet there was no change. He pulled just a little more from the mercenary and suddenly they shriveled up, as if burned by a summer sun. Bone dry.

He let out a small huff of annoyance. "That's a bloody fine line," he growled. He reached out his senses again looking for unspoiled roots and made another attempt.

It went on like that as the dim morning light brightened into proper day. If Iron Bull was tired he showed no signs. He stood patiently as Dorian worked. Finally, the patch of elfroot Dorian had been working with sprung into bloom. New leaves unfurled, new sprouts pushed out of the ground. It was brilliant. He jumped to his feet jubilantly and let out an uncharacteristic whoop of joy. "I am truly amazing," he shouted. He turned to face Bull and reached up grabbing his shoulders. "I am the best mage that has ever lived!"

"Don't know about that," Bull attempted to grouse, but his eye was wide with awe. "But I've never even _heard_ of someone doing something like this." All around them the clearing was filling with new growth, bigger growth, and it was only the elfroot. Not the trees, nor the moss. Only the things Dorian had told to grow were heeding him. Dorian reveled in his success for a moment longer but it was short-lived. The low rumble of Bull's voice and the clanking of the contents of the sack brought him back to the present. "Ready?"

Dorian nodded and headed to the cave. Upon entering he lifted a hand and let a flame spring to life in his palm, illuminating their path. Eventually, the cave forked. Dorian turned right, which he knew to be a dead end. Upon reaching it he began setting up. He went over to the far wall and blasted out a couple of small divots in it. He drew a couple of candles from his sack and placed them in the holes before lighting them. It wasn't much, but it would be enough for now.

Then he turned to Bull, "I'm going to secure the entrance," he said in a shaky voice. "You do what you need to do here."

"Dorian," Bull said dangerously, "do I have to worry about you running?" His heartrate spiked violently but he shook his head. "Good," he said and dropped his sack. Something metallic clanged loudly. "It wouldn't work, and you'd just make things worse for yourself."

Dorian swallowed thickly, nodded, and moved toward the entrance quickly.

The purple energy barrier he erected there would do nothing for people trying to peer in, of course, but it would all but seal sound in, and it would be impenetrable. No one would hear him, and no one would come for him. "If the Qunari wants to kill me," he muttered to himself, "I've made it rather convenient for him." Regardless, he did not linger once his task had been accomplished. He had a feeling that would do him no favors.

He was already fatigued from his experiment but he managed to put up a good front anyway. He rounded the corner to find Bull gone. So were the candles. "Down here," his voice echoed oddly in the cavern. Dorian followed it down the left fork and found Bull, illuminated by the candles, about to nail a spike into the wall. Its purpose, it seemed, was to hold heavy chains and manacles in place. Dorian found himself rendered speechless with anxiety. "This is a better location," Bull explained in between swings. The ringing of metal on metal was deafening in the enclosed area. Luckily, Bull's strength meant one swing was enough to set a spike, and he had only four. "It's colder here," he explained. "You really made it hot up there with that little display on the walls."

Dorian's brain wanted to be witty. He could feel something about "always having that affect" brewing in the back of his mind but it seemed it had prioritized the impending danger.

"You just _had_ spikes and manacles?" He asked. His voice sounded oddly pitchy to his ears.

Bull nodded and rummaged in his sack. He lay out several implements. "They're made to hold me, but all the same I figure they'll work on you. Not the cuffs, mind. I had to use my recreational ones. I'll commission Harrit for a new set." He gestured to the wall. "Strip and stand there."

"Strip?" Dorian asked. There was no pretending he wasn't trembling with fear, adrenaline surging through him.

"Unless you want me to ruin those shiny duds with your blood," he said casually. "No skin off me either way."

Dorian did as asked. Removing his clothing piece by piece and handing it to the Qunari who set it on a cloth of some kind. At least they would be clean.

"When we're done," Bull said, "you should probably drink a potion and go wash in the spring. I can help if you need me to."

Dorian had a moment of clarity, realizing suddenly, how strange this all was. He had no concern for being naked before Bull, and even his offer of help to the spring didn't register as ridiculous. He would probably need help, the practical part of his mind decided.

He stood facing the wall and heard Bull make an approving noise, as one might make for a well-behaved dog. Then the mercenary set about securing him. The manacles were lined with leather so they would not chafe. Dorian thought that was quite nice, despite what they were here to do. When all four had been locked he heard Bull moving around behind him.

"I'm going to start light, Dorian," he was explaining in even measured tones. "You have only two jobs during this. The first is to keep the fear at the front of your mind. Whatever fears you have. I don't need to know, but you may speak, for as long as you are able, if it helps."

Dorian nodded. "And the second?"

"You have to trust me to know your limits. If you cry for me to stop, I will not, unless I judge it is time. Do you understand?" There was no malice in that voice. Nothing hard and unyielding. He was merely a man explaining the rules.

"I understand," Dorian managed.

"We're going to start now. Think of your fear and tell me when you're ready." There was something soothing in the way Bull addressed him.

Dorian breathed deeply. He considered starting with something small but that was pointless. Instead he choose something he had lived with his entire life. The fear of being discovered. He held it in his mind as a clear picture – his father in a room set up for a blood ritual. "Okay," he whispered.

The blow came across his back fast and hard. He grit his teeth, groaned, but did not cry out.

The next blow came harder, the sound of the crack bouncing off the rock surrounding them. Dorian did cry out, that time, albeit softly. _Father standing grim-faced, determined. Trying to trick me into a circle._

The third split his skin and he screamed. "Don't give in to the pain, Dorian," Bull was saying somewhere behind him. "Not yet. Focus on the fear."

"He tried to change me," Dorian whispered, his chest heaving.

Another blow came, rending his flesh, pulling shuddering screams from his lungs.

"Blood magic," he rasped.

And another.

"Weak mind. Weak will."

And another.

"I can fix you, son."

And another. He didn't have the air for words now. His breathing was rapid, his throat raw, ruined from pained bellows, but he could still see his father there, in his mind, trying to take him from himself. Bull continued, relentless.

His vision went white. There was nothing.

He blinked, heard Bull's voice muffled and far away. He was pressing something to his lips. There was command in his tone though he could not decipher the words. Liquid splashed into his mouth and he swallowed. It burned down his throat, and pooled, hot, in his stomach before the tingle spread through his limbs, and across his back removing pain he didn't even realize was there until it had faded. _Elfroot._ His brain managed slowly. Bull was saying something and it took Dorian a while to piece it together.

"Tell… you… happened…"

He was only getting fragments. But the potion was doing its work. Soon his mind did not have to focus on blocking pain and he could hear Bull properly. He was repeating the words slowly, over and over again. Finally, he caught them all.

"Tell me what you saw. What happened?" Bull's hands were smoothing across his bare skin comfortingly. Dorian let out a soft purr of appreciation for the gesture.

"I kept my fear for as long as I could," he said, turning to look at Bull out of the corner of his eye. His voice was still rough, though the rawness of his throat had been healed. "And then, when the pain took over, there was nothing. No father, no pain, no fear." The light was very dim and Dorian's eyes were blurred with fatigue but he could make out Bull's smile.

"That's good, Dorian," he said as his hands set about freeing the mage. "That's very good for a first session."

When the last cuff fell Dorian slumped. He would have fallen to the ground had the Qunari not caught him by the waist and supported him.

"How many times do you think…" Dorian asked wearily.

"As many as it takes, Dorian," he said. His voice was oddly tender. "But you did very well. I'm proud of you."

Dorian felt his heart swell with pride he didn't comprehend. Bull, it seemed had loaded the sack with the things they would need to take back with them to Skyhold. He didn't even need to prop Dorian against a wall to grab it.

"C'mon Vint," he chuffed, trying to get Dorian to walk their way out. It was useless, his legs weren't working. Bull sighed, but decided just to carry the mage. It wasn't until Bull was carrying him to the cave entrance like a sleeping child that Dorian remembered he was naked.

When they hit the barrier Dorian struggled to untie the magic he had put in place. It felt slippery. He hadn't been this exhausted since he was in training. But with a little concentrated effort he managed it. Bull carried him out of the cave and into the cool air of midday. Dorian shivered and tried to press closer to the Qunari. The man's skin felt like an oven next his.

"So cold," Dorian said softly as Bull lay him on the soft moss that lined the bank of the spring. The mercenary began disrobing. At any other time Dorian might have taken the time to observe his form but just now he wasn't capable. Bull climbed into the pool, then reached out and lifted Dorian, easing him into the warm water. He thought he might let him go then, expect him to do for himself in the warm wetness, but Iron Bull still held him close. His hands whisked over Dorian's skin lightly, washing the dried blood away.

"The elfroot will take some time to replace the blood you lost, Dorian," he was explaining. "You'll be cold. When we get back to Skyhold I'll stoke your fire. You should eat something and sleep."

"Skyhold," Dorian let out a weak laugh. "I'll never make it as far as that."

"You will," Bull said firmly. "I took you on. You are my responsibility. You will make it back and into a bed in a warm room. I will make sure of it." Dorian giggled deliriously, though it was weak. "What?" Bull asked.

"You're acting like I'm one of the Chargers," he said through the display.

Bull shook his head. "Not quite right," he said slowly, hands removing the last of the blood. "But it'll do for now, I guess."

They stayed in the pool until Iron Bull was satisfied with Dorian's heartrate and breathing. Then the Qunari dressed them both and lugged Dorian all the way back to Skyhold. Where, true to his word, he put Dorian to bed, stoked his fire, and even acquired him some food. The brute took his wine, however. He didn't have time to linger on that sour thought. He hardly got a crust of bread and a bit of cream inside his growling stomach before his eyes fluttered closed and darkness took him.


	2. Fell Your Pulse in the Pages

Note: This fic takes place in the Maker's series. Just after Adamant.

_ He ran. The way was open, the lime slash spread to show the dark colors of his world, the harsh red of fire and the deep blue of night, so he ran. His legs were shorter, so he ran as fast as he could, not willing to hold anyone up waiting for him. They had to get out of here. Hawke, Stroud and the Inquisitor were right behind him. He knew that. Just ahead of him Dorian cleared the rift, his skin bathed in the clear white light of the midnight moon, free at last of the garish green pallor the fade had cast on them all. A few more steps and Varric has crossed the threshold too, the muggy heat of the Beyond replaced by the crisp winter air. He breathed deeply, taking relief in it. _

_ And then a great piercing screech echoed though the fade behind him. He turned, peering through the fissure between the worlds, to see an enormous spider beast descend, cutting the three trailing party members off from their exit. Including Hawke. _

_ He felt his throat closing, the bottom fell out of his stomach. _

_ "We need to clear a path," Stroud shouted, huge ridiculous mustache flapping. _How can I hear him? _Varric's thoughts echoed dumbly in his head. The Warden was far away, but he could hear him as if they were shoulder to shoulder. _

_ "Go!" Hawke ordered. "I'll cover you!" She wasn't used to not being in charge. This was the Inquisitor's call, really, but she gave the command anyway._

_ Stroud shook his head. "No," he objected. "You were right. The Grey Wardens started this. A Warden must – "_

_ Hawke was having none of it. He could see her, hear her as if he was where he ought to have been – at her side. "A warden must help them rebuild! That's _your_ job." She drew her blade, and leveled a dangerous blood-lust filled smile at the arachnid beast. "Coryphaeus is _mine_."_

_ Varric felt sick. But then, hope. "Hawke," Fitzwilliam began slowly. She would head the Inquisitor's commands, surely. She was not so consumed with making amends for freeing Coryphaeus that she would disobey if he ordered her out, surely?_

_But he could see her eyes, the stubborn squint, the set jaw. She didn't give him time to give the order. "Say goodbye to Varric for me," she said in a tight voice. And then she was off, charging at the beast muttering, "Spiders, always the Maker-damned spiders!" She swung the sword true, drawing huge gashes and spraying acidic blood. _

_The Inquisitor and Stroud ran from the fade. Varric blinked to find Dorian had pulled him away from the opening, restrained him. He hadn't remembered telling his feet to move, but they had carried him toward her. Back into hell, where he needed to be. Everything was happening is disjointed flashes. The Mark flared and the rift closed. Hawke trapped inside. He couldn't tell if he could hear her scream or if he imagined it. It didn't feel real. Didn't feel _right_. Varric jogged up to the Inquisitor._

_ "Where's Hawke?" He asked slowly, his wits fogged. The eyes of fellow fighters averted from him. No one would meet his imploring gaze. No one spoke. "Fitzwilliam," Varric demanded again, voice hard, brow furrowed. "Where's Hawke!"_

_ But he didn't need to hear the words. He knew them. The long look of devastation on his friend's face was enough. He couldn't do this he… he ran off. _

…

_The Inquisitor was approaching the hearth in Skyhold's hall. The dwarf could hear him coming and didn't let him speak. Varric kept his back to him and as soon as he was close enough he started, "Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a Merchant Guild hit list?" Varric turned, looking up at the Inquisitor as he began his tale. "Hawke's uncle got into an investment scheme with a couple of Merchant Caste businessmen._

"_They took a lot of people's coin in order to arrange the import of Wandering Hills from the Anderfels. A delicacy I'm told. Their weird, foreign foodstuffs arrived... alive. And one of them, true to its name, wandered off in the middle of the night." Varric's voice floundered, his face crumpled, remembering her, unable to taunt and tease her about it as he would have were she here. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could almost see her, smell her. _

_Warm arms enfolded him and Varric knew he was breaking the Inquisitor's heart. The loss was weighing on Fitz too but despite that he was still here, trying to sooth Varric. He wanted to blame the man, hate him, but he knew if Hawke had made up her mind there was nothing any of them could have done. So, he just let the Inquisitor hug him. _

_When he felt steady again he pulled back, ending the embrace. "Shit… anyway…" He cleared his throat. "The guild... traced the shipment to Hawke's uncle, but as usual, he was so far in debt he couldn't see daylight. So they went after Hawke instead. They sent guys from the local Carta to Hawke's estate one night. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth. They kick in the door, and Hawke yells "You're just in time!" and drags them over to a game of Wicked Grace."_

_He managed a small laugh, though it sounded half-sob. "They played two hands of cards before the city guard showed up to take them away! A couple of them became regulars in our weekly game."_

_Varric shrugged, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he looked up at Fitzwilliam. "Hawke just... had that effect on people." The Inquisitor smiled back, but didn't say anything. Varric rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "I always wanted to tell that one."_

"_It's a great story," Fitz agreed. His voice had gone rough too. _

_Varric half-turned back to the fire. It was soothing, hypnotic, to get lost in those flames. "I guess I've got some letters to write," he muttered. That was what people did in situations like this, right? "I should tell Merrill the news."_

"_Okay," Fitzwilliam said reluctantly. He could tell the inquisitor wanted to object, or make sure he was really okay, but he didn't press. _

_Varric took a couple of steps toward the stair up to his rooms but paused just at the landing. "This story," he called back over his shoulder, "is no good for heroes."_

VVV

Varric started awake, shaking and sweating, heart pounding. It had felt so _real_. But it was just a dream. He knew it was. Hawke was in her room, cocooned in her silken bedding and downy mattress like a beautiful dangerous butterfly. The actual memories of their trip to Adamant came flooding back. Hawke had come through the fade – and Stroud had been lost. Relief flooded him, followed closely by immense guilt for feeling it. "Ancestors," he groaned into the dark of his room. "I'm the worst man alive."

"The fiery mage, the butcher," an unfocused, matter-of-fact voice called from the window ledge. Varric jumped, scrambling for a dagger before he knew what was happening. "Templar, solider, cook's man," the voice kept on in a sing-songy tone. Varric could see the shadow swaying back and forth, the silhouette of an outstretched hand ticking off the count on his fingers.

"Shit," he swore roughly, tucking the dagger away. "You can't sneak up on a man like that Cole. I could have hurt you."

"You would have felt bad," Cole said seriously. "But you already feel bad. I want to help."

Varric rubbed his face again, trying to rough the tired itch from his eyes. "I'm fine, kid," he sighed.

Cole did not move, but something about his shadow, backlit by the window, _shifted_ and his voice gained the dreamy lilt it often did when he dipped into people's heads. "Compulsion, fixation, consuming. Denial, redirection. Words stuck in my throat. Mouth dry, uncooperative. Pick up the pen." Varric felt confused and entranced by the words, so otherworldly, floating on air half-hot with the fire's coals, half-chilled from the window the boy had opened to gain his perch.

"The ink glides smooth," Cole continued evenly. "I lay her upon the sheets. Her body there, soft curves and hard lines. Her heart. Thump. Thump. My hand pressed to the page. It pulses. I write. Different names, different faces, but it's her. It's always her. Now she will endure. Continue on through the ages to come. Stenciled into arts not yet invented – in ears and on tongues not yet conceived."

Cole stood, moving toward the desk. Its top was littered with sheaves of papers, and loose pages, and crumpled, discarded drafts. The boy looked down at them, his profile _just_ visible in the dim moonlight. "I have read her with my eyes," he said. His hand reached out, plucking up a sheet. "Held her in my hands."

Without another word Cole moved to the side of the bed and dropped the paper. It fluttered to the bed before him, slow and subtle, as if in a dream. _This Being the Telling of the Lady of the Hills and Her Forgotten Love, _Varric read, his mind turning sluggishly. He looked up at Cole, eyes pooling with questions.

"You didn't know. I thought everyone knew," Cole said with a smile. "No wonder you hurt so loudly." His smiled faded. Varric had seen the kid look this serious before, but, well, not aimed at him. "I should go," he said. The dwarf couldn't tell if Cole was expressing his own thoughts or reading his.

He couldn't go now, could he? Andraste, it was still pitch out. Hawke would kill him for waking her unless it was important. Varric shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, Cole was gone. "Just go back to sleep, nug-head," Varric grumbled to himself. And he did. He lay back down, closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

VVV

Varric woke just in time to look out his window and spot the lingering pinks of the rising sun. He felt better than the night before, lighter, his sleep undisturbed by further dreams of the fade and the tragedy that could have been. He washed and dressed, and found that he was whistling as he made his way through the tower and across the battlements. This would be a good day, he decided. He would have breakfast, write a bit, chat up Prickles if the opportunity presented itself. Maybe even play a hand of cards with the others.

As his mind had wandered, so had his feet. He was knocking on someone's door, where was he? It swung open. There, before him, stood Hawke in all her glory. Leather trousers, loose white shirt, leather wraps winding up about her wrists and forearms. She was going to train today. He could tell by that outfit. "Varric?" She said looking down at him. "All right?"

Before he realized what was happening he was pushing past her into the room. "What is wrong with you?" He shouted, turning about face to find her closing the door and whipping around to glare at him.

"Excuse me?" She said, voice dangerous and slow.

There was some small, obviously _hidden,_ part of Varric's brain that tried to warn him off, but it was overpowered by something else. "You," he said an accusing and unsteady, finger pointed up at her. "You tried to stay." Her brow furrowed. "At Adamant. I know you tried to stay. Stubborn, stupid, bull-headed woman." He saw heat flash in her eyes. He ignored it. "How could you do that?" He finally shut up. Too late. Hawke was glaring, and trembling, ready to fight.

"I did what I knew had to be done. Someone had to stay, Varric," she managed through grit teeth. He ought to have been impressed with her restraint, but he was just annoyed by her defense.

"But why does 'someone' always have to be _you_, Hawke?" He yelled.

"That's who I am Varric," she shouted in return, hands clenched into fists at her side, striding over and looking down at him. "I make the sacrifice, I fight the fight. Without that, who am I?"

That same small part of his brain from before was pricking at him, trying to get him to acknowledge what she was saying. "Without that you're Hawke, Hawke," Varric growled. "You're still you. You still fight, with everyone, every chance you get, apparently!"

"What in the void is _wrong_ with you this morning," Hawke huffed.

"I can't stop thinking about it, Hawke. Losing you. I can see it, I _dream_ it. My best friend trapped behind a wall to a world I can never touch. It's a thousand times worse than when you vanished into the wilds," he explained, voice tight with emotion. Her hand reached out to his shoulder and he flinched, expecting a blow that didn't come. Instead, it alighted there, soft, graceful, comforting.

"I didn't _want_ to leave you Varric," she said at last. His eyes fluttered shut even as his hand lifted to cover hers. He squeezed her fingers gently.

"I know," he said in a whisper of a breath. "But I don't know who I am without you, Hawke." The hand left his shoulder, forcing his arm to drop to his side and hang loosely. He could hear the shuffle of her bare feet across the stone, the creaking of the low bed as she sat upon it, the slide of her hands across silken bedding. He had made her uneasy. She made space when she didn't feel comfortable. He kicked himself. "It wasn't supposed to go like this," he sighed, spinning to look at her. She had slumped onto the bed, half-folded over her knees, face looking to the floor, but he could see how wide her eyes had gone. "If I wrote it like this no one would read it. This is not how romance is done. Sorry, Hawke."

Her chin lifted, locking their gazes intensely. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" She asked. Her face was a jumble of so many different things that he couldn't make out any single one with any clarity. It was blasted hard to know what she wanted to hear if he couldn't read her, so he went with blatant truth, consequences be damned. Varric nodded slowly, knowing he must have looked downright apologetic about the whole thing. "What about Bianca?"

Varric scoffed. "Oh, I know exactly who I am without _her._" Hawke raised an eyebrow, a silent inquiry. "Free," he clarified.

Hawke waved a hand. "I don't understand I thought –"

"I loved her?" Varric finished for her. She nodded. "Yeah me too," he admitted. "I thought love was all sweeping emotion. That the strength of it was what mattered. Pain or pleasure, either way, as long as it was overwhelming."

"And that's not what it is?" She asked in a small voice.

Varric shook his head. "No, I don't think it is." He felt like he was fumbling. He needed a way to explain that he _understood_, dammit. "The characters I write, the ones based on Bianca," he tried again. "They never go over well. She's too selfish, readers can't understand why the hero is fascinated with her, why he would endure her. The romances the readers fall for are the ones full of honesty, careful consideration, small everyday gestures. Those are the romances that _sell_. The ones people want.

"Bianca was all dramatics and longing and the thrill of the unavailable." Varric sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "That's not love. That's folly."

"Love makes fools of us all," Hawke quoted with a smirk.

"Truer words," he agreed gesturing to himself. He rolled his neck back and looked up at the ceiling, groaning, "I buggered this." He heard Hawke snicker. "Well," he continued, dropping his head back down to look at her, "as long as it's buggered anyway, I have to know." Hawke leveled him with an even gaze, inviting his question.

"When you tried to stay," he said slowly, "did you think of me at all?"

Hawke pulled the corner of her lower lip into her mouth and worried the red flesh between her teeth, nodding ever so slightly. She looked contrite, guilty. "I did," she confessed. "In fact, you were the only regret I had. Not getting to say goodbye to you."

That genuinely surprised him. He'd hopped she would have bemoaned their lack of farewell, but he didn't expect to be the only thing on the list. After all, there had been many regrettable things in her past – Carver's accident, Kirkwall, Anders. They were more important.

"It's not like it would have stopped me," she said in a rush. "But yeah, I worried about you. You're the best friend I have ever had Varric. You're… you're family."

Varric felt himself deflate a little at that. It made sense and it was a declaration of feeling, but it wasn't the one he had wanted to hear. Still, he'd take a life at her side under any label. "I'm sorry I barged in on you like this," he said finally moving over to the bed. He took a moment to appreciate the low set of it, practically just a mattress on the floor with a fancy frame, now more than ever, as it put her in a rare position – at his eye level. "I didn't plan it, or anything."

She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "That much," she said softly, "was obvious."

"Such a brat," Varric sighed dramatically.

"You love it," she jested. It was a familiar phrase. One she had used a hundred times over the course of their friendship.

"Yeah," he said, amazement and awe filling the mild timber of his voice. "I do."

She closed her eyes, the bow of her lips still curved up slightly, red and wet and lovely. He leaned forward instinctually, his body and mind working together. For this one moment they agreed upon the best course of action. Nothing in the world could be greater than this, he decided. It was worth the pummeling she would likely give him after. He pressed his lips to hers, tender and slow, a silky slide of skin. He kissed, and he waited. Waited for the moment she pulled back, waited for her to make a sound of disgust or apology.

The sound came, but it was neither of those things – it was a deep sound, rolling up from far inside her chest, a moan and a sigh as her lips sprang to life, dancing with his own. He felt like someone had doused him in cold water and sat him beside a raging fire all at once. His hands lifted, touching her face, her cheek, her chin, sliding down to cup her neck, tilting their heads and slanting his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss. He could feel her tremble, gooseflesh suddenly tactile under his fingertips. His hand buried itself in the short fringe of her dark hair as she reached out and let her hands caress him, sweeping across scratchy stubble, down to where red kinks poked out of the open "v" of his tunic. The fingers curled, fisting the hair, and tugged gently. It was his turn to moan, the sound becoming imprisoned between them.

When it ended they were panting, eyes closed, foreheads pressed close. Their breath, hot and staggered, mingled between them. Hawke had never been a woman of subtlety, and when she had caught her breath her hands wandered to the fastener hooks which held his tunic closed. "I want you Varric," she sighed, lips falling to his neck as her deft fingers worked open his clothing.

His head rolled back, appreciative sounds fighting through his control. _Blighted conscious,_ he swore inwardly. "Hakwe, I can't. I want to. _Maker,_" he growled, "I want to, but I can't."

She pulled her head back and looked up at him like he'd sprouted a second head and it was speaking gibberish. "What?" She asked. "Sure you can, I _know _you can. I've heard you doing it!"

Varric chuffed a small laugh. "No, that's not what I mean," he said patiently. His hand rested on her neck, but his thumb swept across her jaw consolingly. "This is just a line I can't cross, sweetheart. Not if I'm ever gonna be able to move on."

"Move on?" She parroted. "To where? From what? What are you talking about?"

Varric screwed up all the courage his shattered ego could scrape together. "It's fine that you don't feel the same way," he said. "Really, it is. These things happen. But if we do this," he gestured between them with his free hand, "I'm never gonna be able to forget it. You're like a drug, Marian, and I'll never find anything as strong."

Her eyes went wide, her mouth fell open, the slightest parting of her lips. His tongue snaked out, moistening his own. He wanted to kiss her again. "You said my name," she whispered dreamily. Varric furrowed his brow and tried to concentrate.

"Sorry," he said. "What?"

"You said my name, and I didn't hate it," she clarified, speech picking up speed as she went. "I always hate it when people say my name. It's a stupid name, Varric. I loathe it. It's a name than invokes roses and sonnets and sugary empty words. I _hate_ when people use my name."

"I apologize?" He said again, still confused.

"Oh, shut up, will you? Just this once, shut up and listen," she chided. His mouth closed with an audible click. "I didn't hate it. I _liked _it, Varric. I like when you touch me, I liked your lips on mine, I liked feeling you. I like when you out drink me, and when you read to me. I like when you steal my knife and play with it until I notice. I like that you treat me like I can handle myself, but I know you're there when I need you. And those things, those things are all amazing and wonderful and they've been pointing to one thing. One thing so huge and obvious that we are both utter fools for not seeing it." It had all come out in a rush, one long breath that had gone so thin that when the words stopped she had to gulp in more air.

He had no idea what she was going on about. "I have no idea what you're going on about," he said.

"I love you," she said, grinning.

Varric managed a lopsided smile. "I know," he said. "I'm family, you said."

She narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursed, scowling. "Don't be an idiot," she warned. "Think about what I am saying."

"I heard you, Hawke," he sighed. "You love me. I get it."

She scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes. Her hands fisted in his half-opened tunic and she used all the strength in her considerably well-muscled arms to pull him close and capture his lips again. His eyes went big as saucers, but he had to admit it was _nice_ getting to kiss her again. He was just easing into it and starting to relax when she pulled back, breaking contact. She tucked a finger under the scruff of his chin and lifted his eyes to meet her deep, imploring gaze. "I. Am. In. Love. With. You. Varric. Teth-ras," she said slowly, pointedly, letting each syllable sink in one at a time.

He blinked. He blinked again. "Because I said your name?" He asked stupidly.

She smiled and shook her head. "Because I liked the way it sounds when you say it," she corrected. He nodded slowly, his thoughts coming like winter sap.

"You're in love with me," he said again. She tried to hide her amusement behind a wry grin and bobbed her head in affirmation. "Me, Varric." She nodded again. "And I," he said carefully, "am in love with you."

"So I hear," she quipped.

"Maker," he sighed, huge smile finally breaking free and splitting his face. "What are we waiting for?" She laughed, a sound so free and easy and beautiful that it might have been a chime – something beautiful and dangerous, like wind catchers crafted from bottles broken in a bar-room brawl. Then she leaned back, and pulled the crisp white tunic over her head in one smooth motion, taking his breath with it, pulled from his lungs and tossed on the floor with the linen.

She sat before him, chest wrapped in gauze, skin bared, forearms still incased in soft leather strips. He could see little brown flecks of freckles scattered across her shoulders and down her collarbone. He could see her scars, old lines of sliver and slashes of newer, angry red, crisscrossing along the canvas of her body artfully – a masterpiece in dawnstone, flesh flushed hot and pink under his hungry gaze, the curve of well-defined musculature, dipping and curving in ways that invited his fingers. He accepted, dipping them into the hollow at her neck, sliding across her bicep, coming to rest on the edge of the binder, his eyes looking to her, waiting for her. She nodded, looking shy, and he felt he could breathe again. The air came in a rush, expanding his chest, making his head spin. But he grasped the gauzy end firmly, unwilling to let it slip through his fingers.

Hawke lifted her arms over her head, folding them over her crown to give him better ease as he worked. He was mesmerized – the gauze swirling around her as he flicked his wrists and flung his arm, uncoiling her. It was almost magic. When the last coil fell to the bed Varric took a step back, admiring her with a heady gaze, wonton and unapologetic. Maker, what a sight. She hadn't moved, arms still folded atop her head, pulling her breasts up slightly, almost presenting them to him, welcoming his admiration. Her eyes were cast down, so when she looked up at him it was through a nervous flutter of lush eyelashes.

He had known she was strong. She had to be to wear that armor and swing that beast of a sword, but he hadn't realized the cut of definition that would afford her. Of course, over the years they had spent traveling together he had seen her naked. Bathing on the road was a "get in now or stay rank" situation. But he had never had the chance to really _observe_ her naked body. Not like this. All lean muscle, dangerous power curling in on itself, like a cat. It gave her strength, true, but speed too. Even like this, half naked under his gaze, he had nary a doubt that she could kill him if she so chose. Best not to give her an excuse to do so.

His feet carried him forward, back to her side, putting her flesh back in arm's reach. "Do you know," he said slowly, surprised by the gravel in his voice, as his hands traced the lines of her breastbone, "how beautiful you are?" She looked up at him, mildly shocked by his words. "If I put this moment, this image down onto a sheet," he said, allowing his thoughts and hands to wander. He pressed his palm flat against her chest, then let it slide to the right, cupping slightly, conforming to the curve of her ribs. His thumb stretched out, gliding across the side of her breast. He heard her soft sigh, saw the flurry of her dark, feathery lashes, a pink tongue snaking out to moisten her lips. "If I put this down, I could _feel_ your pulse in it, touch your liveliness, but no one would ever believe me. Raven hair, short and severe like her, but soft too, silken, feminine. Brilliant eyes, blue-white fire of cleverness and intelligence, dangerous and sharp, to see them like this," his other hand cupped her chin, inspecting her face, she opened her eyes to him, "tender, vulnerable. There's no sight in the world as breathtaking."

She smiled, a little watery thing, and chuckled, "You're right," she agreed. "No one would believe that."

"So long as _you_ know it's true," he whispered, leaning over and letting his breath ghost across her skin. She shivered slightly and made a sound in the back of her throat. He let his lips trail down it, leaving wet spots of sloppy kisses as he dipped his head lower, nuzzling his nose between her breasts. She sighed, one of her hands coming off the bed and cupping the back of his skull, pulling him closer amidst small sounds of eagerness. He let his lips follow the slight pressure her hands provided, guiding him to her left breast. He had intended to be slow and teasing, heedless of the impatience in her voice and the insistent throb which had taken up residence in his trousers, but he never had been able to deny her.

His lips wrapped around the stiff crest of her nipple, ripping a guttural moan from her mouth and sending her into a small fit of spasms. It only encouraged him to draw harder, pulling, letting her fill his mouth, suckling as his hands reached up, cupping around the opposite breast. Her breasts were heavier than he had imagined and, unbound as they were, over-spilled his hands, but they were also softer too. His fingers plucked and twisted, teasing the right mount counter to the way he teased the left. He kneaded the flesh gently, pressing the tip of his tongue around the dusky rose pink tip in his mouth and swirling it. Hawke cried out, arching her back. He smirked against her skin, redoubling his efforts until she was a squirming, uncatchable creature. Finally, mercifully, he released her, leaning back and enjoying the view.

Her skin was flushed red from chest to cheek, her nipple had colored deeply and shimmered wetly, she panted, her left hand clutching at the bedding so hard he was afraid she might have torn it. He smirked, openly proud of how he'd disheveled her. Her eyes opened, looking past him, but when they focused and found the smug look he sported they narrowed, glaring. "Amused, Fuzzy?" She spat playfully.

"Fuzzy?" He asked. She nodded slowly, unmovable. "That's a terrible nickname, Hawke. I am more than my hair!"

"Prove it," she challenged. His cock twitched noticeably at that, her tone and gazing stoking the coals he'd set to smoldering.

"You're going to regret that," he growled. She _shrugged._ "Oh that's _it_," he declared. In the space of a breath he closed the gap between them, pushed her back onto the bed, and lowered his hands to her trousers. He was good with his hands, and he _knew _it. He picked locks, he maintained Bianca, he wrote delicately in curling swoops and swift strokes, so the simple leather lacing stood little chance. It was undone in seconds and, that accomplished, those fingers turned to more important work. He tucked his thumbs under the soft suede of the waistband and tugged, pulling it all off in one long motion, slowly, like a blade across an apple, separating peel and pulp.

He had intended to dive right in, as it were, but once more he found himself struck by her beauty. The round swell of her hips, the thickness and authority of her thighs, ankles that were almost dainty by comparison. _Andraste's ass, _how did they even hold her up? He had to touch her.

He sat on the floor at the foot of the bed and started with her feet. They were hard with callouses, trophies hard-won in hours of marching, battle, and training. His fingers, sporting more than one callous of their own, pressed small circles into her heals, drawing delighted moans alongside ticklish giggling. He could do this for a long time, at literally any other moment of his life. Right now he was entirely too far removed from where he wanted to be. Maker, he could smell the honey-sweet musk of her arousal. Filling his head like a siren song.

Her legs were scared too. The left calf had a sizeable chunk missing from it, the skin had headed over puckered and angry. He touched it carefully, worried that it would be sensitive. He was right. The gasp of an abrupt inhale came from the bed. He lowered his lips to it, careful not to let his stubble scrape the tender flesh. "How did you get this one, sweetheart?" He asked, moving to kneel. His lips trailed along the inside of her knees as he gently lifted a thigh, weighty in his hands, and moved it to the side, spreading her before him.

"Ah," she sighed, trying to gain some composure. "In the wilds, pack of feral dogs. Big beast of one got me."

"Hope you gave as good as you got," he mumbled, darting out his tongue and leaving a wet trail up the inside of her thigh.

"Got his eye," she moaned, wriggling.

He was only half-listening, too keen on the sight, and the _smell_ of her sex. A small patch of close-cut hair, and, peeking out, the vibrant pink of slick wet folds. He salivated at the sight, not able to restrain himself at all. His finger moved on its own, dipping slowing into the welcoming warmth of her. Their mutual groans mingled in the air, indistinguishable. "Oh, Hawke," he purred. Her hips pressed up eagerly, her inner muscles fluttering around his thick digit.

She humored his cautious exploration for mere seconds. "More," she demanded in a breathless pant. He pressed another finger in, feeling a delighted purr rumbling through her body. He pumped slowly, the slick of her arousal easing the slide of his fingers. Occasionally, he would curl them, catching his fingertips just beyond the shelf of her sex and stroking across the spongey bundle of nerves nestled within. If the noises she made where any indication he was driving her quite wild.

Finally, _he_ could endure no more. He leaned forward, tongue snaking out to lap languidly at the warm juices that made her core shimmer. She tasted sweet and tart, like good wine, or candied citrus. The flavors danced on his tongue, enlivening it, spurring it to greater movement, more intricate turns. He became so involved in it, the sound and smell and feel and touch, that he didn't notice how close Hawke was to falling over that edge. He wanted to take her there, wanted to hear and feel her as she fell. And he wanted to catch her.

Some men, when they got a woman teetering like this, liked to go full-force. Pick up the pace, pound like crazy. Varric, didn't go in for that, generally. He liked to increase it by increments. After all, if he had gotten her to the edge, what he was doing was working. There was no need to reinvent the wheel here. Persistence would out. So first he merely made his attentions more focused. His tongue drew circles which pulled in from the wide sweeps they had been making to a more concentrated effort around the small bulge of nerves near the crest of her sex. Her hips began to move in time with his thrusting digits, a slow undulation that made his cock throb, longing to feel her moving like that around him.

Well, he'd certainly managed to toe her closer. He tried not to smirk in self-satisfaction and ruin all his fine work, and instead peppered short suckles between the swirling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, dragging ever-louder cries from her, mutters and supplications mixing together into a cacophonous chime. Her pelvis rocked, practically riding his face to the place she wished to go. He took a deep breath and took her there, lapping eagerly, fingers pumping. And then she was crying out, her body going rigid and soft all at once. Her scream of pleasure, for the mere moment he could hear it before the impressive strength of her thighs clamped around his ears muffling all, was sharp and keening. But it was the hot clutching of her core that saw him involuntarily thrusting with her, his body running on pure instinct.

Slowly, so slowly that he worried for her wellbeing and his lungs, she came down, body relaxing around him, her legs falling back to the bed freeing him. He pulled his lips from her then, and took in deep breaths scented by the smear of her which covered him from noose to neck. His fingers withdrew, instead moving to pet, soothing her fatigued sex. She shuddered under his attentions, but mewled contentedly as he kissed the inside of her legs. Admittedly he was also using the opportunity to remove some of the slick she'd left behind. Not that he didn't _adore_ it, mind, but he wanted to kiss her again, and thought she might be rather more willing if he wasn't quite so disheveled. He peppered the pecks up her body, across her abdomen and chest, before he had to stand to reach farther.

The movement broke the spell that had held her so still, and before he could continue with his grand plans she had sat up and crashed their lips together almost violently. She moaned around the kiss, clearly deeply pleased by something and his chest swelled with pride. "Maker, Varric," she sighed between kisses. Her hips were attempting to press closer to him, stood as he was between her legs. "I like the way I taste on you."

His hips bucked hard at her words, the swelling in his trousers actually brushing over her sex making them both cry out. It was shocking to hear her say something like that, shocking at deeply arousing.

He realized now that he had allowed himself to become distracted. She had already pushed his tunic off his shoulders and on to the floor in an unkempt heap, and now her fingers were pushing the buttons, placed in dual rows on his trousers, through their holes. The flap was free in a mere moment and then she was pulling at the laces roughly, forcing them to yield. He expected her, upon completion of that task, to pull them down but she did not. Instead she dove her hand inside, grasping, and he found himself smothered, quite wonderfully, in her warm hand.

He gasped, his head falling back. She trailed her lips down his neck instead, undeterred, as he bucked up into her fist. He could _feel_ the hard pads of her fingers, worn by her sword hilt, marking a tactile difference between their fleshes. Her lips trailed lower and it wasn't until she pressed them just under his navel that the realization of her attentions manifested in his lust-addled brain.

His hand shot out, grasping her by the back of her neck as he attempted to speak. "Sweetheart," he hissed with some effort. "Not that I don't love the idea of your mouth wrapped around me…" Her tongue snaked out, trailing across the head of his cock and completely wrecking his thought process for several seconds. When he looked down she was peering up at him, eyes dancing with mischief. "Ah," he cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm not gonna last if you keep that up."

"Maybe that's what I want," she quipped.

He nodded slowly, and swallowed thickly, feeling more blood rush to his groin, making her hand jump. "I won't deny you anything you want, Hawke," he said seriously. "So if that's all you want from this morning, you may proceed." He saw her lips curve into a wicked smile and he rushed to finish his speech. "But if you want more," he said leadingly, his hand carding through the short fringe of her inky-black hair. She paused, seeming to consider what he was saying earnestly. Finally, even a bit reluctantly, she nodded, and removed her touch from him entirely. He was not too proud to admit it was a decidedly unpleasant sensation.

"Fine," she huffed, though it wasn't half as serious as it sounded. "But you had better get undressed really, really quickly."

Varric laughed, bending down and unlacing his boots. "I can do that," he agreed. He glanced up from his work to see her. She had moved to the middle of the bed, leaning back on her elbows and was watching him, her crystal-blue eyes focused and appraising. Varric had never been self-conscious about his body, but that stare was… intimidating. He looked back down to complete the task, straightening as he toed the boots off.

He didn't stand on ceremony now, too eager to touch her again, and merely tugged his trousers off. They landed on the floor, beside the rest of his attire. He heard a small gasp from Hawke. "You weren't wearing any…" He merely smirked in response. "Get over here," she demanded, beckoning him with a finger.

He climbed onto the bed, but did not spread himself over her. "Actually," he said hesitantly. She lifted an eyebrow at him, impatient and curious. "I uh, I don't know if you've ever been with a dwarf," he continued. She shook her head. _I'd thought as much_, he sighed inwardly. Andraste's silky knickers, but he just wanted to grab her by the hips and drive into her. But no, not this time.

She didn't seem daunted by his cock, so that was good, but they were going to have to go to some effort anyway. Varric wasn't built like a human. Where they had length and reach he had foundation and strength. And it was the same in his breeches. His manhood was short and thick and he knew he was going to stretch her something fierce the first few times they came together. It would almost have been easier to couple anally.

"I'm gonna lay on my back," he explained, motioning for her to make room. "And I want you to straddle me. _Take your time_, he added emphatically. "I'm serious, we don't have to rush."

She looked a little less confident after his words of warning, but no less determined. She set her jaw and nodded curtly. He lay down and reveled in the sight of her setting herself over him. He could feel the heat off her sex even before she slid the slick slit across his shaft. He groaned loudly, eye squeezing shut. It was _agony_, having to hold still when all he really wanted was to ram up into her until he spilled himself. Somewhere behind the black of his eyelids he could hear her making soft soothing sounds.

He opened his eyes again. "Whenever you're ready," he said encouragingly.

It seemed that was all she really needed. She wriggled until the wide flare of the tip of his length nestled at her opening. And then she was lowering herself. _Too fast,_ he thought and sure enough a loud hiss of discomfort escaped her. He lifted a hand to her thigh, stroking his palm across it in an attempt to temper her eagerness. Hawke ceased her descent for a moment, adjusting to the stretch he required. If he hadn't been in absolute bliss at the moment, only just able to process anything beyond the feel of her body, he would have felt bad for the burning he knew she was feeling. He only wanted her to feel good things. He hoped it would be worth it.

He heard her deep inhale and steeled himself against the slow slide that was to come. He was not ready for the way she sank down onto him in one smooth measure. He cried out, bucking up into her, making it worse, no doubt, but he couldn't help it. The hot wetness of her, wrapped around him so abruptly, was threatening to undo him completely. It was only the shallow panting of her pain that gave him the will to overcome the reptilian part of his brain, the part demanding he take what he wanted.

"Okay, Hawke?" He asked, voice tight. It was very hard to talk. When she didn't say anything, continuing to tremble silently over and around him, he forced his eyes open. The hands on her thighs, one his and one her own, had gripped her too tightly, he realized abruptly. She would have bruises there. He tore his eyes from looking at it, guilt washing over him in a wave, and sought out Hawke's face.

He found it, screwed up uncomfortably, clearly trying to exert her will over the pain. "Hawke," he said again. She forced her eyes open to look at him.

"I'll be okay, Varric," she assured him.

"That's not good enough," he growled, angry with himself. He _knew_ Hawke. He knew her better than he knew anyone else. He should have anticipated her recklessness. His hand reached out, his thumb slipping between her folds and swiping over her clitoris in even, unrelenting strokes. She opened her mouth to object, but then he hit it _just _right and she was reduced to small cries of delight. "That's better," he drawled slowly, feeling her core pulse around him. It was hard to stay still under that sensation, but keeping his hands busy was helping, as were her mewling purrs of delight.

He drove her higher and higher until, finally, the pleasure outweighed the pain. Hawke began moving, her hips rippling like a wave over him, pulling him deeper. It was intense, overwhelming, and perfect. He forced himself to keep his eyes wide, focused on her. She looked gorgeous, hair wild, inhibitions unfettered. She whimpered, beyond words, it seemed, and rolled her body ever faster, driving him on with her movements.

He would have preferred to draw this out, see her over the edge half a dozen times and then found his own release, but he could see this was going to come to a speedy end. Later he might be embarrassed by that but just now he had but two thoughts: driving her over the edge so that he might see her come undone around him and burying his length in her as deep as he could and letting go of the control he was just barely holding onto.

He grabbed the top of her thigh in his free hand and eased them into a steady rhythm. Then he let his thumb sweep squarely over the bundle of nerves, no longer teasing it, but making a concentrated effort. She cried out as her core gripped at him but she didn't falter in her ride. "That's is sweetheart," he purred. She clenched tightly then, and he smirked. He wasn't sure if it was his words or his voice but it didn't really matter. He felt proud of that reaction. "You feel amazing, Hakwe," he continued luxuriating in the continuous flutter of her core around him. "You're beauty and strength and lust in one perfect package. I'm not gonna be able to hold back much longer," he admitted tightly through several grunts of effort.

"I… that's fine," she gasped and squeezed his thighs around him. Maker, she could probably crush him with them if she wanted.

He shook his head in dissent, but realized she had her eyes closed. "No, sweetheart," he said. "No, I want to watch you. I want to feel you fall to pieces. Then," he broke off for a moment gasping as she quivered around him. She _was_ close. "Then I'll let go."

She didn't need any more convincing than that. She urged him faster and he complied, both in his thrusts and with his thumb. It was mere moments later the fall started. First, her cries climbed in pitch, coming faster and louder. Then her body began to quake, all of her muscles feeling the fatigue. And then, last of all, everything went tense. It was a challenge to continue trusting up into her when her sex was clamping around him so tightly that it felt like she was trying to force him out. But that wasn't what broke him.

Look of shattered, agonizing pleasure plastered across her face, and the knowledge that it was because of him, that set the tight coil of heat in his groin free. He cried out her name, his hips bucking a rough staccato, his cock pulsing inside her as he released long strings of hot seed. He could hear his name on her lips, whispers of it falling from her like delicate father down. He pushed on, her hips still rocking with him, milking every last drop of pleasure from them, drawing it out like water from a well until they were both empty.

Hawke collapsed over him, her back bowing dramatically so she could rest her head on his shoulder instead of smothering him under her breasts. Not that he would have minded, just at the moment. His hands went to her back, smoothing over it, caressing and soothing as they endured the aftershocks of their pleasure. His manhood, still hard and buried inside her, twitched in response to the overstimulation, making his body shudder. Hawke was trembling, head to toe, vibrating him wherever she her skin touched his. He turned his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat as he did so. She made a low sound of appreciation at the back of her throat. Varric chuckled softly and continued petting her.

He was soft and sliding free by the time the warrior woman saw fit to roll to the side and collapse upon the bed, and his arm. He could feel the sticky evidence of their activities cooling as it was exposed to the air, but couldn't quite bring himself to rise and clean up. Not yet. He curled the arm she had landed across, pulling her to his chest. A kind of relief washed over him when she responded by moving closer in his embrace, nudging her nose through his chest hair. It was the unexpected relief that highlighted the anxiety he had been feeling, tucked somewhere far at the back of his mind. Part of him, it seemed, had expected her to have regrets, to pull away. But instead, here she was. Her crown nestled between his pectorals, a soft sigh of contentedness whisked from her lips, setting the curls on his chest fluttering, as her fingertips wandered over his skin, exploring languidly, seeking out his scars and tracing them delightedly.

Varric was just starting to doze off when her voice, pitched low and colored by a rare timidity, drew his attention. "So," she was saying, "what now?"

Varric furrowed his brow as she shifted, turning onto her stomach and propping her fists between her chin and his chest so that she could look up at him. He reached out, his fingers finding her hair again. It calmed him to touch her like that, something innocent and intimate. "I don't know," he admitted. "What do you want?"

She smiled at him, the scar across her nose crinkling. "Well, I've missed my sparring session with Blackwall," she said slowly. "He'll be most disappointed, I think he has a bit of a crush on me."

Varric chuckled. "If Cassandra ever stops mooning after the Inquisitor maybe she'd notice the way the Warden looks at her," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "Though, I'm no expert. He probably made moon-eyes after you too. I think he has a thing for strong women."

"Who doesn't," Hawke replied with a smirk. Varric winked by way of reply, his hands still carding through the silky fringe of her hair. "But, really," she continued more seriously, "I meant more like… _What next,_ what next."

"Ah," Varric said, feeling the anxiety crashing back upon him with a vengeance. "Can't we just stay like this?" He asked. "Do we really have to do anything else? Ever again?"

She shook her head, nudging him in the ribs. "You tell me, Ser Storyteller," she said. "What happened after happily ever after?"

He groaned crankily. "Generally," he explained, "more conflict, more attacks, more problems…"

"I think we can handle that," Hawke bantered back. "We're a good team."

He couldn't help the smile that broke free at her words. They had always been a good team. They communicated well, watched each other's back, payed attention to what the other needed. He had felt so lost without her, and now she was here. He didn't know if he could let her go. Varric pulled her closer, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "We're a great team," he agreed.

"Yeah, so, maybe we just stay like this," she said nuzzling her face into his chest as she snuggled closer.

"Your wish is my command," he offered dramatically.

"Merf," she muttered. "I'm too cozy to take advantage of that. Give me a few minutes."


End file.
